


we just need some sleep (to dream these fears away)

by glueskin



Series: ffxiv hell [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Guilt, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonbinary Character, Other, Sign Language, Twin Warriors of Light, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/pseuds/glueskin
Summary: in the aftermath of the praetorium, akhar does what they can.





	we just need some sleep (to dream these fears away)

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this...uh...immediately after the praetorium but forgot about it between. other fics and getting lost in the sauce of msq because i wanted to be caught up in time for shb launch
> 
> so i finished what was left and was like. well. guess ill post it. 
> 
> the document title for this was "thancred your possession trauma" and i truly do want to go more in depth on how absolutely fucked up that entire thing was and how he was not fine and still sometimes isnt fine over it. so i probably will.

Akhar’s legs are cramped, thighs and calves aching where they remain crouched in one of the dark, dusty corners of the Waking Sands’ storage room.  
  
The place is still in disarray. Y’shtola and Yda had cleaned what they could before everyone had all been too busy to continue the efforts; part of the brick near where Akhar is crouching is still stained with blood. They pointedly don’t think about whose it might have been.  
  
It’s been—an hour, maybe, since Akhar had retreated here. Acatae’a had told them to go to their room and rest in an actual bed instead of hovering around the medical bay uselessly, but it didn’t feel right and waiting anywhere else was liable to get them attention.  
  
Footsteps approach. Akhar expects them to just pass by as all the others have, but the door creaks open instead. Ears twitching upward, Akhar stops breathing—only to exhale it all in a relieved sigh when they recognize jangle of their brother’s boots, the sound revealing his presence even before the faint scent of antiseptic and elixirs would.  
  
As expected, Acatae’a is the one who peers over the stack of crates, a sympathetic smile on his face.  
  
_“I thought I’d find you here,”_ he says, gloved hands gesturing carefully. He’s slower than usual—he must be tired. Akhar is, too.  
  
They all are.  
  
“Sorry,” they say, feeling a bit guilty. And then, signing, _“I know you said to go to bed. I just…”_ Akhar trails off, flapping their hands with a lost expression, and he nods.  
  
“ _I know_ ,” he says, not unkindly. “ _He’s okay.”_  
  
Acatae’a accentuates the words by the way he reaches down to clap his hand on their shoulder, comforting. Akhar pats his wrist, eyes infuriatingly damp, and tries to get up—but they’ve been in this position too long and their legs lock up.  
  
Acatae’a catches them by the upper arms before they can tip over. Akhar hisses, legs throbbing in pain as they’re slowly pulled up right.  
  
“I’m okay,” they gasp out, since Acatae’a can’t ask. “Just—spent too long here. Sorry.”  
  
He huffs a soundless breath, briefly squeezing their arms in lieu of a response. It takes an embarrassing few minutes before Akhar is able to stand without support—or, it would be embarrassing if it were anyone other than Acatae’a keeping them upright.  
  
_“You said Thancred is fine?”_ Akhar signs once Acatae’a releases them, and he nods, for once not eye-rolling at their name sign for him.  
  
_“The healers from Baldesion cleared him not long ago. I figured you were waiting around, so I came to tell you_ ,” he says, and Akhar gives him the sort of smile they rarely let anyone else see.  
  
_“Thank you_ , _”_ they say, and he smiles as well.  
  
_“Thank me by going to bed,”_ he says, then pauses and adds, “ _And I do mean getting some sleep.”_  
  
Akhar reddens, sputtering at the implication, and he laughs—a sound that’s all air as his shoulders tremble with it. At that, Akhar can’t even bring themself to pretend to be offended; Acatae’a has scarcely laughed since they had returned to find the Waking Sands full of corpses.  
  
“I’m going,” they declare, face still red despite how relieved they are to hear him laughing like that again. “You get some rest, too. Okay?” Akhar gives him their best Older Sibling expression, which is just their usual dead stare with even more focus. As always, Acatae’a remains unaffected.  
  
_“Believe me, I will. I’ve been awake as long as you have—if I try to do any more healing now, I’ll just make things worse.”_  
  
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”  
  
Acatae’a nods, lifting his hands, and Akhar’s expression softens. They take his hands in theirs, leaning in to press their cheek to his, nuzzling into his hair—a gesture he returns.  
  
“Goodnight, brother,” Akhar murmurs against his cheek as they pull away, and his expression mirrors theirs almost perfectly—the only differences, now, are the scars they both have.  
  
_Goodnight_ , he mouths, releasing Akhar’s hands, and they part ways for the night. Akhar makes their way not towards their own room but to Thancred’s.  
  
Akhar passes by the room they share with Acatae’a, nods to Yda and Y’shtola when they pass them and pointedly ignores Yda’s sly grin as she realizes where they’re headed; Y’shtola elbows her harshly before she can say anything baiting, thank the Gods.  
  
Akhar knocks on Thancred’s door when they arrive; normally, they would let themselves in, but if he wants to be alone—  
  
The sound of stumbling and a muffled curse are heard behind the door. Akhar waits, and a few moments later, the door is being wrenched open.  
  
Thancred looks as awful as Akhar feels. They haven’t checked a mirror in over a day, though, so they can’t be sure if they look as shitty as they feel.  
  
“Akhar,” he breathes, looking both delighted and anxious. The skin under his eyes is bruised darkly from lack of sleep, the sickly pallor of his skin making the color stand out even more.  
  
His night clothes hang off of his frame more than they had before. Akhar, not for the first time, wishes they had been able to kill Lahabrea more permanently—and preferably with their bare hands.  
  
“Can I come in?” Akhar asks, and Thancred laughs with a somewhat desperate edge.  
  
“I—of course you can. I did not know if…” he trails off as he steps aside and Akhar _hates_.  
  
They reign it in. They can’t let it show on their face, lest Thancred thinks it’s directed at him.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Akhar says instead, stepping past him into his room. It’s dark, lit only by a single aromatic oil lamp that fills the room with a drowsy, sweet scent that Akhar has long since come to associate with comfortable nights in.  
  
“Are you staying?” Thancred asks as he closes the door, and Akhar meets his gaze evenly.  
  
“If you’ll let me,” they say, and can see the conflict in his expression. They wait.  
  
“I want you to,” he says after a long moment. “But I…” his gaze lowers from Akhar’s face, down to their midsection, and his expression twists with guilt.  
  
Their bruised ribs throb at the reminder of Lahabrea’s strange magic. They’ve ached all day, to be sure, but under the weight of guilt in Thancred’s eyes they hurt even more.  
  
“It wasn’t you,” Akhar says, and they mean it. “And if you feel bad about it, then at least we match.” They tap their clavicle, mirroring where their magically heated rapier had impaled him—rather, Lahabrea—and pinned him to the ground.  
  
They can still smell the burning flesh. Lahabrea, screaming with Thancred’s voice, Thancred’s face contorted in pain and fury. The only other time Akhar had felt such self-loathing and guilt had been years ago, when Acatae’a’s hand had slipped from theirs as they fled the destruction of the Calamity—when, hours later, they had found him soaked in his own blood.  
  
“That is not,” he starts, then shuts his mouth as he realizes what they’re doing. Akhar smiles, an expression not nearly as soft as the sort they had shared with Acatae’a not long ago.  
  
“We can argue about who has more right to guilt tomorrow,” they say. “Right now, I just want to go to bed with you.”  
  
Thancred’s helpless expression eases into something closer to fond and hopeful.  
  
“Okay,” he agrees. Akhar’s stiff smile softens. Instead of saying anything else, they reach up to unwind the fabric of their scarf; habit seizes Thancred before the guilt can, this time, as he brings his own hands up to help them unclasp the pin that holds the scarf in place.  
  
A hint of self-doubt still flickers across his expression, but that’s fine. They’ll work on it.  
  
While Thancred moves to leave Akhar’s scarf draped over the back of his chair as usual, Akhar removes their rapier and its sheath from their belt, propping it against the wall by the door.  
  
As they turn back towards Thancred, they peel off their sweater, earrings jangling and feeling a touch of regret at the pained expression that he wears at the sight of them.  
  
“It’s not that bad,” Akhar says, carelessly dropping their sweater and touching their fingers to the mottle of black-blue bruises along their ribs. Acatae’a had been near tears with frustration over his inability to mend them; Lahabrea’s magic lingers still, slowing the process.  
  
“I’m still sorry,” Thancred says. Akhar hates it—that he feels sorry, that he feels guilty, that he looks at them with anything other than camaraderie, want, and what they had hoped to be the beginnings of something too terrifying to name.  
  
“Make it up to me by not complaining about my shitty circulation tonight,” they say and Thancred lets out a strangled sort of laugh.  
  
“I can - I can do that,” he says, and Akhar sits themself at the edge of his bed, moving to unlace their boots; Thancred follows, dropping to his knees before them and swatting their hands away even as discomfort crosses his face at the movement.  
  
“Thancred,” they start, concerned, but the expression he wears stops them from saying anything else.  
  
“Just let me,” he says, and so they do; he unlaces their boots for them, starting with the left; he grasps their thigh in one hand and tugs the leather off with the other, and then repeats the action.  
  
He moves to take off their belt next. This time Akhar does stop him, fingers wrapping around his wrist—it feels thinner than it should—and staring down at him with wide eyes.  
  
“You can’t sleep in that,” he says before they can find a way to voice the nauseating concern that had surged in them.  
  
Relieved, Akhar releases his wrist, and Thancred unclasps their belt with practiced ease and discards it on the floor nearby.  
  
Using the edge of the bed as leverage, Thancred pushes himself up, grimacing with something closer to outright pain. He seems to hesitate, then, glancing down at them.  
  
“I can still go,” Akhar says quietly, misunderstanding his expression. “If you’d rather—”  
  
“Stay,” Thancred says immediately. “Please. Just…” he trails off, and Akhar swallows back the rest of what they’d intended to say.  
  
For someone always so well-spoken, Thancred always seems to struggle to ask for things he needs as opposed to wants, especially when that something involves _feelings_.  
  
Akhar thinks they get it, though. He still can’t believe they want to be here despite what Lahabrea had done.  
  
“Come to bed,” Akhar whispers, and Thancred’s next inhale is a ragged, wounded thing.  
  
But he climbs into bed with them, tugging the thick blankets down for them both to climb under. Akhar watches each movement he makes, cataloguing which makes pain or discomfort twist his expression—he’s good at hiding it, but not good enough.  
  
When they’re both comfortably buried beneath the blankets, Akhar shifts closer to him, sliding a hand against his hip.  
  
“Is this okay?” They ask quietly, and Thancred gives a single nod, moving to shift his own arm around their shoulders. Akhar tucks themself against him, arm draping over his waist, face pressed to his throat.  
  
“Akhar?” Thancred whispers after. When they make a quiet noise, he continues. “Thank you. For…” he swallows, trailing off, and presses his face into their hair. “Thank you.”  
  
_Don’t thank me for this_ , they want to say, because _of course_ they want to be here for him, but they simply tighten their grip on him briefly.  
  
_I might be in love with you_ , Akhar thinks, but keeps the words locked in the back of their throat. Closing their eyes, they focus on the sound of Thancred’s heart. He’s alive, he’s home, and they have time.


End file.
